


Thinner Than A Razor

by Cers



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character studies, Growing Pains, M/M, Narrative foils, Past to Present, Shadowgast, am I right lads, and a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: You are a young boy, you are left without peer.You are a young boy, you are know nothing of fear.You are a young man, your achievements your own.You are a young man, you burned your own home.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 15
Kudos: 90





	Thinner Than A Razor

You are a young boy living on the farm. Your father, honorable and devoted, hands you a book on magic. It’s old. It’s tattered. Bought from a peddler through the town.

It’s wonderful. It’s perfect.

You _devour_ it, it fuels you. 

Your first spell is a _spark_. 

But it doesn’t compare to the glowing pride in your mother’s bright blue eyes. 

You run outside, all legs and elbows, to find your only two friends. They absolutely _have_ to see this. 

* * *

You are a young boy, doing laces on your shoes so tight. Your outfit is trimmed and tailored, suitable for a child of your Den. You leave two buttons undone. To rebel. Just a little.

You pick up your loaned books and walk with purpose to your destination. You sit them carefully on the table where you eat your morning meal alone. The silverware is polished, and the linen is all lace. The books are your only company. Later, your class is boring and unchallenging, your ‘peers’ equally so. Banal chatter filters through, and you tune it out habitually. Your books though, they fill you with excitement and wonder. 

Alone in your room, the tingle of magic flows from your fingertips. 

* * *

You are an older boy, helping your mother on the farm. You do this not because it is expected, because your mother needs it, and you want to help. She aches from the work, but complains not a jot. You admire that about her, and seek to reduce her burden.

The sun dots freckles across your face, and tans the white of your skin. Your smile is wonky and wide, the last adult teeth finally growing in. You clean your face with a damp cloth as you pride in your hard day’s labour.

Dinner is warm, hot, and earned. Conversation is animated, lively. Mainly because of you. You see the grey hairs starting at your father’s temples when he returns from patrols. You note the lines framing your mother's eyes from where she's smiled so much.

You help your friends with spells from your book, the art coming more instinctively to you. Their somatics are gently corrected, your voice enunciating the words properly for them to copy.

Teaching comes naturally to you. You tell all to your mother, at the table that night. She pats your cheek and hugs you close. Soon you will be too tall for her to kiss the top of your head.

There is a good, strong crop this year. You and yours will do well. Hopefully in a few more weeks you’ll save up enough silver to earn your first gold piece. You are in need of a few.

You want a familiar, you’ve decided. A cat. The spell page in the book is fainter than the others, for how much you’ve studied and touched it. Soon, you think. Soon. All the hard work will come to fruition. 

You pass out content in your bed every night. 

Life is good. 

* * *

You are an older boy, straight-backed and chin high. You have risen above your social peers into the ranks of scholars. The Marble Tomes Conservatory is your domain, and it is as sleek and cool as its name suggests. The stacks are high, well stocked and available- epecially to one such as you. The Arcane collections are more familiar to you than your own family quarters.

Your status as a prodigy is gaining you interest outwith your Den. Your mother calls for an audience with you on chilly morning. She is poised, and severe, and perfect behind her sleek vermaloc desk. Her words may as well have damned you though.

You are to undergo tutelage in politics- the Den demands it. Her gaze is unwavering, unassuming, unchallenging. There is no question of your obedience. You will do this. Because it is expected.

Your father travels once more to Bazzoxan, and wishes you to do well in your studies. 

For the Den. 

The candlelight of the Conservatory now feels cold and without heat, being arcane and false. The tomes on law are heavy and long. You itch to drop them, throw them, leave, and escape to the shelves you prefer, with authors familiar and companionable. 

The chaperoning of your Den tutor forbids it. 

Meals are lonely and without taste. The pages of your spellbook become less and less filled your time dedicated now to more 'pressing' matters. 

You do one more button up on your garb. To the neck. Like it is protection.

Like it is a shackle. 

* * *

You are a young teenager, lanky and awkward. You have been scouted! Your friends have been too. A mage from Rexxentrum is travelling the area, hearing of such enterprising students in the rural village of Blumenthal. 

You beg your parents to go, you _plead_ and _implore_. 

Your father has more grey to his beard now, your mother’s back a little more stooped. 

_"Let me go, it will only be for a short while "_ , you say. "I can learn, and learn, and grow, and then teach. I will teach in the big city of Rexxentrum! I will teach all over the Empire, _vater_ ! Please! I will provide for you both, and you can settle down in comfort and never lift a finger again. I _swear_ it" you cry.

And they listen, and they talk. Late into the wee hours when they think you have gone to bed, but you sit atop the stairs and strain and strain to hear them.

Within a week, and with teary goodbyes and I-love-you-so-muches, you and your best friends ride a fanciful carriage to the most incredible place you have ever known. 

* * *

You are an adolescent. You are installed into the Court, only expected of one from the higher Dens. A lowly position, but a respectable one. Your reports are concise and clear, your work impeccable. No one has anything poor to say of you. You won't give them that edge. 

In the private confines of your quarters within the Lucid Bastion, you slink out your spell books. They are your company and your religion. You worship them and within their crisp, blank pages your hopes, dreams, fears, and desires are kept. They only take, never give back. 

It’s all you have. 

You start experimenting, with small unusual spells. Twisting and developing basic Dunamantic principles into more practical uses. They take shape, they take form. They are yours. No one elses.

You think to write a paper, but… it is not expected of you. It is not proper. You are not a wizard anymore (were you ever really?), you work for the Court. You write the dissertation anyway, and leave the author anonymous. 

Your work continues as a simple court administrator, excellent and pristine. Your higher officials take note, and you advance in rank. 

Your mother is pleased. The Den is proud of your work, it does well for them that you are so committed. _They_ gain favour with the Bright Queen. All because of your achievements. 

You remove the anonymity from your handiwork, and announce your intelligence to the world. 

* * *

You are an adolescent, wide-eyed and filled with wonder.

You are thriving in the Academy, it is everything you dreamt of and more. Your robes are loose and overly big, but you’ll grow into them. Your mother always gave you clothes to grow into. The library is warm and inviting, the stacks going on forever. You could get lost in here, you frequently do. Astrid and Eodwulf often have to drag you away to get some air. You love them for it. You count the silver in your purse. You're almost nearly there. Soon you will have your first familiar, one to call your own. 

You are quiet in the classrooms, but alive on parchment. Your professors take note of your work, their commentary informed and directional. You absorb every piece of advice you can, honing your articles and authoring skills until your theses and discussions are as professional as the books you so devour. You take great care to keep your ideas simple and descriptive, the thought of young students in years to come reading your work and wanting to understand. 

Some of the professors appreciate this thought. One in particular takes an interest in you. He asks your name, and you supply it readily. 

He offers private tutoring. You sometimes wonder how things might have turned out, if you had uttered once, the word 'no'. 

* * *

You are come of age, a fine party thrown in your honour. You have just been consecuted, one the _highest_ honours available. Your mother embellishes the list of your accomplishments loudly in her address to the guests. She is sure that they all know that you are of _her_ Den. Look at my son, she preens and boasts. "I made him all that he is," she parades. Your jaw aches with the force of your polite meign. 

Your father is quiet in his formal armour, allowed special leave from his post to attend. In private he admits he is very proud of what you have done. _For the family_. 

You bite back every poisonous remark on your tongue with a sweet smile and a practised ‘thank you _so_ much’. You do not see him off to Bazzoxan this time. 

The Tomes now houses several of your manuscripts, with scholars and practitioners now consulting with _you_. Even while you have risen high in the administrative ranks of the court to Taskhand, you still set aside time for your Dunamantic studies. It did not take long to demand their respect and interest in your developments, for you took your feet off the ground and refused to put them back down. Who were they to argue with that?

The increased wages, and heightened position afford you the ability to move out of Den apartments in the Lucid Bastion, and purchase your own space in the Firmaments. 

You view several allotments, most are… suitable. Affordable. Adequate. There is one empty house that your Den holds the deeds for, but have no use for since most prefer the luxury of the Bastion. It is large, with two floors and an attached tower, but you feel it is a little _too_ much for your requirements. It would feel too empty, that many rooms and only you to fill it. 

You instead wander over to the Tomes, and spy an unusual sight across the way. 

You have never paid too much attention to the abandoned plot , with two towers standing and one ruined in rubble. It was scenery to you, out of your daily periphery. But looking at it now, with your growing wealth and demanded respect, it seems perfect. Consulting with architectural plans and history at the Tomes, you find it is more than perfect given the ley lines it sits upon. 

You purchase the deed, and set about designing your own personal space. 

You monitor the progress of the workers, consulting and submitting addenda as things proceed. 

The day arrives when you move away from Den quarters, and your Umavi once again asks deliberately if this is really what you want. You reply in the affirmative, and leave the appointment. 

You step over the threshold of your _own home_ , brand new and yours and there’s a curious feeling settling into you. In just a little bit of rebellion, you undo one of your collar buttons. And honestly? It’s freeing. 

* * *

You are come of age now, with eyes still blue.

Your progress is scarred on your skin. 

Like vicious tallies, they are jagged and marked. 

To increase the power within. 

The more you gain, the further you go. And go.

And go. 

And go.

You are nearly finished.

You are so, _so_ close.

Take the time to repose.

Go ahead, and visit your home! 

For you will be graduating soon. 

And so to your home you travel and go. 

It will be nearly autumn soon.

Your mother’s hair is nearly grey. Her eyes still twinkle blue. 

Your father’s beard is trimmed and white. His pride is all for you. 

Your family home is very old. The walls and doors are thin.

That night you sit above the stairs, and hear their treacherous sins. 

Your parent’s house is high with flames, a cart across their door. 

Come hear their screams as they burn and burn!

They’re loud, and choked, and raw.

The screaming slows to coughs and hacks,

And now...you’re not so sure. 

Your mother’s now dead, and your father is too. 

And it’s awfully because of _you_. 

Too late this night, do you understand,

Your actions, and their magnitude.

You run, you fight, you break, you fall. 

And thus is the end of Bren Ermendrud. 

* * *

You are a man. Over a century old. Shadowhand is your new title. It is distinguished and impressive. Also earned. You have risen beyond anyone’s expectations, surpassing officials older, more experienced than yourself so fluidly that they sneer as you overtake them. You care not, you have yourself and your _own_ accomplishments. You are enough. 

You attend court meetings more frequently, private ones. Delicate ones. Political ones. You listen, and listen, and act, and advise. You defer to the Dusk Captain, and appoint the Taskhands. Your administrative staff is efficient and productive, your workload managed with careful organisation. Reports to your Umavi are concise and guarded, affectionless and proper. Just as she wanted. 

Your audiences with the Bright Queen are few, but impactful. She is stern, dauntless, assured, and composed. Everything you would expect of your Queen. 

Except when she isn’t. When her striking words betray a crack, a flaw in her perfect visage. Poisonous images of genocide and casual proposals of innocent slaughter turn your ears and pale your dark, drow skin. 

You bite your tongue. 

You keep those turnt ears open. 

You hear of whispers, barely spoken in shadowed corners. Of murmurs of doubt, and worry. 

The Queen is losing herself, and so it has been for the last couple of lifetimes. She is subject to fits of erratic decisions and demands in the private conferences of the most senior of officials. Now including yourself.

You keep a closer eye on her. The cracks- they’re hairline, but they are there. And the more you notice them, the more obvious they become. They are confirmed with the other Umavi’s twitching of eyebrows, or a slight turn of the head from the Dusk Captain. 

The Queen is losing herself. And they seek to cover it up. 

It is not unheard of, you think. To lose oneself over consecution. The only flaw in your otherwise ‘perfect’ society- the public secret everyone ignores. And your Queen is beginning to show signs. 

It is not a simple case of ignoring her, and dealing with her moments in private, no. Thousands of Dynasty people could die- may have _already_ died- due to a pique of untethered madness. Her position was dangerous enough already, her responsibilities doubly so. Coupled with typhros, it was a precarious situation to be in. 

You only hear of the madness through hushed tones spoken in late nights. Those that suffer, unable to determine or separate so many consecution cycles break and wither. They are usually euthanised out of the range of a beacon, or left to wander dangerous plains. Such things are not eligible options for the Bright Queen of the Kryn Dynasty. 

So it leaves you with little choice. Building on your decades of academic research, you craft and design careful proposals, desperate to study a Beacon for ‘dunamantic’ reasons. If you can understand it, learn it, piece it together, perhaps- perhaps _you_ can be the one to cure her. To figure out how it all even works. 

It is arrogant, and the hypotheses are involved. But you are a prodigy of your generation. And to study and experiment with the most sacred of their relics, to be the one to solve the mystery of how they worked? Truly an added bonus. 

You expect to be denied. No one yet has gained such a privilege. You redesign your theses, resubmit. Over and over again. You gain a reputation for heretic leanings over time, for why else are you pushing so hard? And over and over again, you are rebuffed and rebuffed and rebuffed. 

No one _understands_. No one sees the urgency. Or worse- they ignore it deliberately. 

Your parents corner you, with words of ‘dishonour’ and ‘shame’ brought to the Den. Your mother refuses to hear your pleas when you spill your true reasons. She dismisses you and commands compliance. Fall in line. Be good to your Den, as we have been good to you. Your father implores you further, and your temper finally snaps. The words you share with him are devastating and spoken aloud, unable to return from your lips. He departs the next day to his post in Bazzoxan. He does not return. 

Desperation corners you. You look to the West. 

* * *

You are a man. Dishevelled, hungry, and scared. The forests are your friend, the forests are your worst nightmare. Your skin is paper-thin, scarred, scratched, and marked. Your memories are hot and burning- distant screams your only company in the cold nights.

A stolen pendant sears a brand into your soul, evidence of your sins. Of your escape. Of you _living_ again. 

You hunt, and forage, and survive. Somehow. Eventually you stumble upon civilisation, and begin to pick and steal. 

And then one day you are too clumsy. You are caught. 

The gaol cell is freezing, and rough. A single barred window provides a beam of moonlight. In your most dire moment, late into that first night, you cup your hands and whisper into them. The words are fragile, cracked, and hesitant. You haven't uttered these words in over a decade. 

A single spark lights your calloused palms- a gasp from the shadows startles you sharply- 

Two feet cautiously step into the moonlight. And then a body, scrawny, and green. Wrapped in bandages so filthy that you feel clean. 

Her eyes are yellow and wide. And they are scared. 

“C-could you d-do that again?” She asks. 

Within days of release, you have finally, _finally_ ~~stolen~~ gathered enough gold. And some twenty odd years since you first leapt with excitement at the notion, you now have your own familiar. 

And it's a cat called Frumpkin.

* * *

Highborne and noble, your expression is assured and stiff. Your back propped straight with ego. Your mantle flows effortless over you, it’s weight keeping you grounded as you float. 

It is an ordinary day, with ordinary proceedings in court. The standard audiences and happenings occur-

Until, without preamble, a troupe of the most eclectically-coloured, _bizarrely-dressed_ individuals traipse into the pristine halls of the Lucid Bastion. 

And then a human, scraggly, lean, and bold holds up high one of the very relics of your Dynasty's Beloved Luxon. 

One of the _missing_ beacons. 

That you yourself had stolen. 

* * *

You are lowborne and rural, a former mage of the Soltryce Academy, now current member of The Mighty Nein. 

Your coat is clean, purple, and sharp. Your cat is happy and content. Your history is blotted over by a series of dark events. 

Your friends are few, but dear and true. And you think you’ve gained one more. His mind is sharp, and keen, and sure. His eyes pierce you with every gaze, honey wet on his dark lips. 

You are not immediately taken, but the allure is _almost_ too much. A similar mind, with similar ideals. He is handsome, and quirkily charming. A trap, perhaps. But a pleasant one. 

You settle into your new home - a bribe, a gift from his Den. You don’t complain anyway. It has been… too long since you had your own house. Your own home. 

You feel as though it is cruelly underserved. 

You lose one of your own. You work hard to gain her back. You return to streets familiar. 

You’ve come along way, you’re told. Words aimed your way, with a name long since dead. The blood is in your ears and it is pounding and pounding and pounding an-

And a shield of bodies form around you. Squeezing your hand, your shoulder, the small of your back. You are safe, you are protected. You will come to no harm. The pounding slows to a steady, strong thrum. 

Talks of peace come to light. You are tasked with mediating back and forth. But you have to check the Beacon, you are told. For all of this to continue on. 

The Sanatorium looms high, and foreboding. You cannot temper the trembles and sweat and dizziness. You gulp as much air as possible once outside those iron gates. Returning to the house in Rosohna, leaves you feeling more safe than ever before.

The Shadowhand is there, with a bottle of wine in hand. Nothing he does is safe, and the allure increases once more. There is something… familiar with him, something resonant with you. You won't understand it. Not yet. 

The water on your feet is pleasant, steamed, and warm. The walk to his tower is cool and … nice. He sees a similar spark in you, the feelings... you have them too. 

The next morning, your shared enthusiasm stimulates and impassions, and the answer you needed is _there_. He is brilliant, he is incredible. And he has that same look in his eye. You know if you were to see your reflection, there would be little difference between you both. 

Your friends evolve, you help their goals. The curse on your oldest friend is broken, but not without pain. “We’ve just got this one back,” you declare with conviction. To your friend, your _sister_ , and she sniffles in response. “ _No one goes_." You state. "No one goes.”

Your family is unusual, but it is tight and devoted. You are healthy, cared for, and you no longer wander alone. Life…is … _was_ cruel. But now? Life is good. It...it is good to have family again. But time is pushing against you. 

The heat of Nicodranas is familiar and known and your job is a simple one. The docks are full and the sails are furled. The Wind of Aeons is there. You board, and talk, and smile- though it is only there by habit. 

You look to the sea afterwards, and my it’s oh so blue. Your sister's grip on your shoulder is firm. Now grounded and safe, you let go of your vision. 

Frumpkin is swift and stealthy and efficient. He sees all for your benefit. 

And there he stands, your mirrored self, with betrayal in his mouth and conflict in his eyes. 

The pounding in your ears starts once more. 

* * *

You are not yourself, your disguise is secure. The party is loud and in full swing. The music is background, the buzzing in your pointed ears too much. 

They are there, The Mighty Nein. Dressed in formal garb and wear. You are honestly surprised, how dashing they look. _Especially_ the one in black. You imagine him in formal Kryn wear, he would definitely suit it well. But you cannot dwell on such things. Not here. Not now. And so, you keep your distance.

It matters not. 

The night is cool, and the walk is long. Your escort stern and quiet. It should disturb you how _severe_ they are, but your mind is too busy racing. 

The room is closing, and the crate you sit on is hard. 

Their gaze looks down on you, and for the first time in your life, you let them. Things got away from you. Out of hand, you say. It was never supposed to incite all this. The words spill, and spill, and spill, and spill. Until all you are left with is your regret. 

And your eyes are cast down, the floor without judgement. You can never meet their eyes again. 

Then a hand lifts your face, and tears fall silent and true. 

You are bestowed a kiss, a plea, a _chance_. 

This is when you realise… He really _does_ understand. The fire in his eyes shouts it loud. He has been there, he is really you.

And you, Essek Thelyss, you believe him when he says _you_ can do better. He knows it, he’s lived it. _Is_ living it.

And he tells you with fervor. 

And Caleb Widogast is right.

The difference between you both is really

Thinner than a razor.   
  



End file.
